The Bourne Fallacy
by Hidden Relevance
Summary: Co-written by Askita. In the world of internatial espionage, what someone thinks you know can be even more dangerous than what you really do know. And misconceptions? Those can be deadly. Post Ultimatum. Eventual Jason/Nicky, Kirill/OFC
1. A Chilean Shopgirl in Martinque

A/N:**HR:** Hey it's me! I know I said that I was going to focus on Handle ID, but thanks to my beta Askita pushing at the Bourne category... I kinda lied. But it's all her fault. So there.

**A:** *pssh* My fault? Miss "I've got to write a Kirill/OC story and have the bright idea to combine it with your already in progress Jason/Nicky fic"…?

**HR:** *ignores her* So what exactly do you need to know about this story? Well first of all.. I'm NOT the only one writing it. Askita is writing it with me! In fact the prologue is actually her's.

**A:** Yay! It's actually a spinoff of the original one I had planned, but it's going in a completely different direction so now this is a prologue. It'll be so much fun. I'm totally excited.

**HR:** Totally... Oh! And all the intelligent spy/plot stuff is pretty much her's too.

**A:** Yeah, but that's OK. I'm happy to share with you, seein' as how you can't plot spy stuffs. Why do I get the feeling I'm talking to myself… Like Commentary.

**HR:** Ooo we could do commentary... it would be fun! Anyway: What am I contributing, you ask? A deep unswerving belief that KIRILL NEVER ACTUALLY DIED! I could give you a massive explanation regarding body language and psychology, etc. But mostly it comes down to the fact that I refuse to believe anyone could kill off a character played by Karl Urban. It just can't happen.

**A:** I actually agree here. He didn't kill him in Supremacy. He left him for dead, but he didn't execute him. I think that Jason lied intentionally to her brother, because he didn't want him trying to exact revenge against an asset. (I know that technically Kirill isn't an asset, but he may as well be.)

**HR:** What she said lol. But yeah, pairings will be eventual angst-filled Jason/Nicky and sorta/kinda/more of a one night stand with complications of Kirill/OFC.

May the insanity commence.

**A:** Let it begin!

**HR: **Oh BTW, ***disclaimer approaching*** other than Suzanne and our crazy theories, we don't own a damn thing. It's sad really.

**Fallacy: **

_A misconception resulting from incorrect reasoning in argumentation. By accident or design, fallacies may exploit emotional triggers in the listener or interlocutor (e.g. appeal to emotion), or take advantage of social relationships between people (e.g. argument from authority). Fallacious arguments are often structured using rhetorical patterns that obscure the logical argument, making fallacies more difficult to diagnose. Also, the components of the fallacy may be spread out over separate arguments__._

**Prologue by Askita: A Chilean Shop Girl in Martinique**

Jason Bourne had never lied to Nicky Parsons before in her entire life, but Nicky, for some unknown reason, thought he'd begun to that night in Morocco. He'd ushered her toward the bus station, took care of all the essentials, and packed her off to no name town north of Nador. A whirlwind of cities later, she'd settled in Luxembourg, Russia. It turns out Jason wasn't lying after all. It did get easier.

She became a brown-eyed dark-haired college girl on vacation from Iowa. She spent one month there before moving on when she realized she was incredibly see-through and needed to get her head on straight while she was running. Eight towns later, she created Amelie Kuster, a blond-haired blue-eyed German girl, shunned by her family for her broken engagement to a British national named Mark Arthur. She worked as a waitress in a night club in Strausborg, France, perfecting the watchful but not watching technique on patrons who were too drunk to notice.

The four months she spent in France taught her a great deal about hiding and running and being safe and secure. But it was the reason for her move to Spain that was, by far, the most enlightening. Apparently a not-drunk-enough bar patron had begun following Nicky home. Who knew a girl on the run from the CIA (and Heaven knew who else) would pick up an honest to goodness stalker? Maybe it was the blond hair.

As redheaded, greed-eyed Missy Smith, she worked at a small grocer until she remembered people often frequented the same establishments for things like milk and fresh fruit. She stayed in the same apartment and instead took a job in the local movie theater. Valencia had enough people that she rarely ever saw the same person twice; and no one really cared about the girl behind the counter doling out popcorn and soft drinks when their movie was about to start. She liked Valencia and stayed there for half a year, the longest by far.

She decided it was time for a change of continent and headed for the island of Martinique, in the French Caribbean. Louisa Rodriguez (Nicky with long dark brown hair and her natural brown eyes) had acquired a full blown tan that she would have been born with as a Chilean native. 'Louisa's' parents had died in the earthquake in 1995, perishing along with her younger brother, Juan. She'd been lucky to escape. The atrocity had prompted her move from Chile to Venezuela (where she lived briefly), then finally to Martinique where she'd settled while in hiding from her abusive ex-boyfriend. She had no friends, and whenever anyone asked one too many questions about anything, she responded with violence and anger. It was enough to keep anyone at bay.

Nicky worked in a bookstore and rotated between six different routes to work. She made a practice of stopping at different coffee shops on each route. She kept two courses hidden in her memory in case she needed to bolt, and her 'pick up and go' bag was secreted at a gym close to her apartment. She was an expert at blending into crowds and had mastered the art of reacting like she didn't understand English no matter which language she was speaking. Nicky spent the first week immersing herself into the culture by people watching and eavesdropping. Using her knowledge of English, French, and Spanish, she was able to easily acclimate to the Creole-tinged French language easily. A Chilean accent was added to round out her character.

She had a regimented two hour workout each morning that exercised each of the styles of fighting that she'd learned in the CIA, one she learned about improvising from Jason, and two she'd taught herself in the last year. She wouldn't be caught unaware again. Every morning, she ran an hour long tour of the city, frequently visiting formerly unfamiliar places.

She celebrated the one year anniversary of her last sighting of Jason Bourne with a bottle of tequila in the locked bathroom of her seaside apartment in Sainte-Anne. She ate the worm and regretted it the next morning when she awoke on the intricately tiled bathroom floor with the worst hangover in history. She spent that day in her darkened bedroom drinking Gatorade and downing Tylenol and praying that she'd be able to stomach food the next morning. She tried to sleep but kept dreaming of the last time she'd had more tequila than she could manage and instead watched old reruns of 'I Love Lucy' and practiced forgetting her American accent.

**January 16, 2006 Sainte-Anne, Martinique**

Nicky made a short stop at a café whose name translated to 'The Hungry Lizard' and ordered a cup of plain strong coffee with a shot of vanilla and enough sugar and cream to put a diabetic into a coma. She sipped the perfectly created confection while she walked the next block and a half to the bookstore where she worked. Her red linen pencil skirt and white cotton blouse had been chosen for their classic lines and semi formal appearance with the combined tastes of native Chilean women and Caribbean climate in mind.

"Hello," she spoke in Creole to the shopkeeper as she entered. The elderly woman yammered on in her native tongue as Nicky put her things on a shelf under the checkout desk. She smiled politely and made the usual pleasantries. Nicky'd worked here for the last three months, having found the job open upon her arrival and the proprietors unwilling to prod too much into her personal life. She worked a long, arduous shift filling her time with sorting and stacking various used books by author and title. She rearranged a storage room and dusted and scrubbed every shelf and window.

By the time she got back to her apartment, it was late. She made a quick round of her apartment, checking all the locks and security measures she'd had installed in the first week. Nicky had created a ritual of traps she engaged each night and disengaged each morning. She checked the ammo in each handgun she kept in hiding places over the apartment and reminded herself every night which items within easy reach could be used as weapons if need be. She'd taken to keeping her pistol gripped in her hand during sleep and had to practically force herself not to crash in jeans and sneakers. She ate a quick meal and poured herself into her bed, still recovering from the last two days of alcohol overindulgence.

Nicky pulled a familiar dark brown men's tank from her handbag and imagined the familiar scent rolling off of it. She removed all of her clothing leaving her panties in place before pulling the a-line shirt over her head. She snuggled into the blankets; the comforting weight of the Glock 17 cradled against her chest, and focused her brain on the back of her eyelids. She imagined herself falling into a cocoon with layers and layers of black floating over her; wishing once again for deep sleep, knowing that she'd only get half way there.

The memories of Jason were too close for comfort and, as always, she fought the recollection of a time she was sure she'd be the only one to remember.

**So it begins! Please review- we'll be sharing them after all!**


	2. An American Tourist in Moscow

HR: So, now for a change of pace! A rather drastic change of pace, that we probably need to explain a bit lol.

A: Just a little. So obviously this is much longer than the Prologue.

HR: Much, MUCH longer than the prologue. And that is totally my fault. See, I'd decided to write a completely shameless one-night-stand-with-Kirill one-shot, and actually had it almost done when askita and I realized it actually had the potential for real plot.

A:Didn't we go over that part already? I'm sure we said that before you shamelessly hijacked my Nicky/Jason story...

HR: Yeah yeah. I just thought I'd warn/remind them before they dive into this expecting to see Jason or Nicky. Cuz yeah, they aren't ANYWHERE in this chapter lol.

A: Yeah, they really aren't. As a matter of fact, this part is extremely needed, and as such could not be cut down at all. Seeing as how, we've decided to have our OC be crucial to the plot development and story setup.

HR: Yeah, she's totally turned into a walking plot device and/or foil to the three cannon characters. In any case, here you'll get to meet our OC, oggle at Kirill, and enjoy a little smut. Surely that's enough for anyone right?

A: And it's tasteful smut. Definately above par to what you'll find in your average cheesy romance novel. Although I'm sure if you want hardcore sexy sex you can just PM the living daisy's out of Hidden and she'll just fold over and obey. *looks innocent*

HR: *headdesk* Cuz I REALLY need more plotbunnies invading my brain. Thanks ever so much.

A: *continues to look innocent* But don't worry, I'll be back soon with our next installment, this time centering around our favorite amnesiac asset. Although he'll be sadly lacking the twinkle in his eye and heart wrenching smile. *pouts*

HR: *grumbles* That's about enough out of us for the moment, don't you think? On to the fic!

And btw, see the disclaimer from the first chappie: We only the OC and that's nothing.

A: You know... we're pretty good at this. Is the camera still rolling...

HR: *shuffles her co-author out the door*

A: *meep*

**Chapter 1 by Hidden_Relevance: An American Tourist in Moscow **

**January 16, 2006 Moscow, Russia**

Suzanne tried to ignore the concerned look her friend Kim was giving over her drink. Not that she didn't feel a little touched, but really, she didn't need a well intentioned babysitter making her even more edgy. She took a sip from her glass of questionable liquor and directed her gaze out into the crowds that populated the trendy Moscow club their hotel concierge had suggested for them. It was definitely one of the more hip places she'd been. The kind of place she'd guess Gary would be totally comfortab-.

_Stop it. _She scowled at herself. It was bad enough she'd been forced to continue to deal with the bastard for the past week and a half of their trip; she didn't want the thought of him hanging over her head when she was trying to enjoy herself this last week in Russia. Trying for Kim, if not for her self. Suzanne and the now-ex had planned this month long trip through Europe as an attempt at "rekindling their relationship." She took another long drink. That had been an epic failure.

She turned her gaze back to the person perched next to her at the bar. At least she'd had the sense to suggest they invited some of their friends along for the trip. She'd know Kim for years, and Gary had insisted that his good buddy Mitch come along as well. He was the other (besides Gary) missing member of their group, one she'd always been less than fond of as she'd always gotten the feeling he encouraged Gary to party. She'd certainly been proved right about that asshole after the incident in Paris. She didn't know where either of those two were, and frankly she thought he and Gary could now go screw themselves for all she cared.

"Hey Suze, come on, let's dance, huh?" She mustered up a weak smile for Kim. Trust the other woman to know that normally music and motion would be the way to kick start her friend out of a funk. Too bad she just wasn't up for it tonight.

"You go ahead, chica. I'm comfy." Kim didn't look convinced, and she tried again to smile. "Besides, that redhead's been checking you out for at least five minutes."

"Ooo really? Well in that case... But don't get too comfy. You better join me out there, eventually." Suzanne raised her eyebrows at Kim's mock glare, and just nodded.

"Yes, Mommy." With one last look at her friend, Kim headed out onto the dance floor.

Finally left alone, Suzanne allowed herself to sigh and drop the forced smile from her face. She didn't mean to be a buzz kill, but fuck if she felt like shaking her ass for some stranger to stare at. It was going to take a hell of an inspiration to actually get her in the mood to dance tonight. She sipped again, emptying her glass with a wince at the cheap liquor. Then, she set the glass aside for the bartender to collect and glanced over to watch her friend rocking out. The sight was almost enough to make her smile. As it was, her face just softened out of the frown, but it was better than looking as angry as she'd known she probably did a minute or two prior. A voice, and a touch to her elbow startled her and she spun to see the bartender sliding a shot to her and spouting something in Russian.

"I'm sorry. I don't, I don't understand." He shook his head at himself, then answered in heavily accented English.

"Ah, apologies. This is from the gentleman at that table there." He pointed to her right, and she turned to see a table populated mostly by party favor types and the few men they were hanging all over. One of them, a dark haired man with 2 such ladies all but in his lap, was staring straight at her. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the bartender.

"I'm not interested in being his number 3. Thanks though." She turned back to the dance floor, only to have the glass shoved closer.

"Is paid for, da?" She reluctantly took the shot of vodka, as he spoke again. "This is our best. Ah, top shelf?" Surprised, she pointed up to the expensive bottles displayed.

"Those, really?" Her eyebrows went up as the bartender nodded.

"Da, it is our best. Very good." She sighed and lifted the glass.

_Ah, what the hell?_ It wasn't like she was likely to spend the cash for something that expensive; she might as well enjoy it. Suzanne shifted to face the dark man's table and lifted the shot in a slight salute. He saluted her as well, and then they both downed the smooth liquor. She exhaled slowly as the burn worked its way down her body dam near all the way to her toes.

"Oh wow, that was good." She gave the bartender a nod, then despite herself, glanced back at the stranger. Once he could tell she watched him, he lifted his hand to wave her over, obviously ignoring the rather annoyed looks of the women he was with. She scoffed; well this one was certainly arrogant. Thanks, but she'd had quite enough of that from Gary. She stared pointedly at each of the girls, and then back to him, and shook her head deliberately. "Sorry, that's just not gonna happen."

Satisfied that she'd made her point, Suzanne slid back around to watch her friend, ignoring the bartender's faint look of shock at her dismissal. She was debating on ordering another drink, of the bottom shelf variety that she _could_ afford, when a dark figure walked between her and the dance floor to settle himself on the stool next to her. Surprised she glanced over only to find herself staring at the well-dressed man who'd bought her shot. She swallowed slightly, hoping the man didn't notice her nervousness. And lord, was he really making her nervous. Despite, or possibly because of the few faded scars on his hands and one large one cutting through his closed cropped dark hair down to just above his eyebrow, he was undeniably handsome. He wore what she was fairly sure was an exceptionally expensive suit coat over a tight black shirt and slacks that accented the hell out of his long legs. She skated her gaze back up to his face, to find him watching her check him out with an unreadable expression on his slightly scruffy face. She swallowed again. Apparently satisfied that she'd looked him over long enough, he spoke, his voice deep and rich, and his accent thick, but relatively easy to understand.

"You didn't come over to the table." She blinked. That was a rather bland conversation starter.

"I wasn't fond of the company you were keeping," she quipped, jerking her head back over her shoulder to the table where she was pretty sure the blondes were likely sending her death glares. He flickered his gaze past her.

"Fair enough." Now his eyes slid down her form just as obviously as she figured her own perusal had been. That slow gaze was beginning to raise her blood pressure. "You still took the drink I sent you." Again, it was more of a statement than a question, and she wondered mildly if he only spoke in declarative sentences.

"It was already paid for." He nodded slightly, and she went on. "Besides, I didn't ask for you to buy it for me. I didn't come here looking for random men to hit on me." He raised an eyebrow slightly, and she wondered if she was simply imagining the hint of mischief.

"You would have preferred random women, then?" She rolled her eyes. Typical male.

"No, not really. I just got-" She caught herself and shook her head again. "No, let's not go there. Sorry, I'm nowhere near drunk enough to tell some stranger about my crappy love life." The eyebrow when higher.

"I see." With that he turned slightly, waving the bartender over, and after a brief exchange of words in Russian, another pair of shots were being placed in front of them. "Well then. Drink up." She glanced from the shot to his face and back again.

"Oh, por el amor de Dios," she muttered, practically glaring at the shot. "Fuck, what the hell." She grabbed it, and tossed it back, not bothering to salute the man this time. He was only a moment behind her, his eyes definitely amused this time. "You ought to tell me your name, you know. I won't keep drinking with a stranger."

"Kirill. And you are..." he trailed off, and she again noted that he'd managed to avoid actually questioning her. It was a neat trick, if odd. She chased away the thought and told him her own name. Suzanne was startled to find him reaching out to take her free hand and brushing the knuckles with his lips. "It is a pleasure."

He dropped her hand almost as suddenly as he'd taken it, and she was left fiddling with her empty shot glass, trying to hide just how potent of an effect the laconic man was having on her. She was grateful for the silence he didn't seem in a hurry to break: otherwise, she knew she'd be likely to start babbling helplessly. She tried to focus on the dancers and not the heat of his thigh just barely close enough to brush her own. She was probably blushing... It was mortifying. Just when she thought the silence was going to drive her out onto the dance floor, he spoke again, startling her out of her reverie.

"So, you speak Spanish, but not Russian." She wondered if there was a hint of reproach there.

"I, uh, I actually speak just a little of a couple languages actually." She shrugged to herself; either he was actually interested or she'd bore him and he'd leave. Either outcome worked for her, honestly. "Ah, hablo un poquito Espanol. Spreche ein wenig deutsches." She held her thumb and first finger apart in front of him. "Nur ein wenig. Beyond that, I only know a bit of Chinese, though nothing that's fit for polite conversation, and a little Japanese slang." She shrugged again. "I only took Spanish back in school. The rest I just learned in bits and pieces." She fell silent, having run out of anything to say on the topic.

"I speak the first two, as well. I know nothing of Chinese or Japanese." He was eying her with a faintly considering expression. "How does a young woman learn impolite Chinese?" Suzanne was so busy noting that yes, he did know how to ask a question, that she almost forgot he was likely waiting for a response.

"You'd be amazed at what a girl can learn if it gets her on a stage." A rather aroused eyebrow was raised this time, and she realized it likely sounded like she was a stripper. "Umm, for theater... On a stage for theater. I swear." There was a beat of silence, and then he began to actually chuckle, an honest smile spreading across his handsome face, leaving her glad she didn't have to stand on suddenly weak knees. She ducked her head for a moment to compose herself, then lifted her gaze back up to his.

"You know, I get the feeling you don't smile like that nearly often enough." This time apparently _she_ had shocked _him_, and he seemed to founder for a moment before finally responding, his voice thoughtful.

"No, perhaps not." In the quiet between them after that amusing little side bar, he gestured for another round of the excellent vodka. This time she just sipped slowly, savoring it. Now, Kirill was the one left toying with an empty glass, waiting for her to finish.

"So, have you drunk enough to say why you turned down my company?" She blinked, surprised he was actually going to push her on the subject. What man really wanted to know why a woman was or was not considering a one night stand? She wasn't considering, she reminded herself. Absolutely was not considering it. Not that she hadn't been enjoying the conversation, and true, Kirill's attractive presence had kept the thoughts of the asshole at bay for the most part.

She opened her mouth, trying to decide how to answer, and then with a muttered Chinese curse, Suzanne spun back to the bar and gestured for the bartender to pour her another shot. She tossed it back as both men watched bemused, and then she took a deep breath.

"Well, if you really want to know," she gave a dark laugh, then went on. "I came on this trip with my boyfriend of nearly two years, and some of our friends. He, the boyfriend, had noticed I was getting sort of, over him, I guess, and decided touring Europe would be a great way for us to get back to being all romantic or whatever." She shook her head. "However, I was getting over him because I had my suspicions that he'd been sleeping around, and I didn't think the stupid trip was going to fix that. Not to mention, who goes to Russia in January? It's insane how cold it is outside... But, he paid for my half, and everyone else signed up." A deep sigh slipped out of her. She didn't look at her silent audience.

"Anyway, it was fun in London for Christmas, and the first day or two of Paris. But, after New Year's, I went back to the hotel early, and he was in our room with the maid. A French maid. God what a fucking cliche." She looked down as his thigh pressed a little harder into her's. "So, I'm now single, which is nice, I guess. But, I don't take sex lightly, and I wouldn't want to... I'm not looking to get laid when I don't know if it's because I want the guy or because I want to get back at the asshole." She shrugged and finally glanced up at him. "So there you have it."

His eyes were on her, and she wondered if he'd been watching her that intently for all of her bitchy monologue. Once again, his gaze slid down the full length of her, appraising, and judging from the curve of his lips, he was enjoying what he saw. The intensity of it drove Gary from her mind with very little effort.

"I can say this," he said after he'd finished undressing her with his eyes, "I do not know that you should _not_ want to 'get back at the asshole.'" He paused and leaned slightly closer. "But I can promise you would not be thinking of anyone but me, _if _you did go looking." The mischief was back, along with that nearly arrogant confidence that damned if she didn't find more than a little sexy. She was not about to let him know that, though. She sighed dramatically, and reached out to pat him on the cheek.

"Kirill, dear, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but that ego is nowhere near as attractive as the rest of you." He scoffed.

"How can you say that? You have not even seen my _ego_ yet." Suzanne blinked as the innuendo sunk in, and the she threw back her head and laughed out loud for the first time since she'd walked into her hotel room that day in Paris. She was suddenly silenced, as he swiftly closed the scant distance between them and kissed her soundly, then sat back just as quickly leaving her staring at him. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

"What, exactly, was that for?" He stroked his hand along hers softly.

"I think, perhaps, you do not smile enough, either."

"I... I see." He nodded slightly, just a hint of a smile hovering about his lips. He turned to call for another round as she stopped him. "Just water for me, please." The smile vanished, though he ordered as she'd asked.

"You do not want to keep drinking with me." She shook her head, feeling suddenly shy with the realization sinking into her head.

"No, that's not what I meant. It's just, I'm a sleepy drunk." She mustered up her courage and met his eyes. "And I really don't think I want to pass out early tonight." His eyes smoldered, and the smile began to ease back onto his face.

"I see." He handed her the glass of water, and she took a long drink, licking her lip slightly as she finished.

"I think you do." She finished off her water fairly quickly, growing giddier by the moment under the heat of eyes. As she set the empty glass beside her, he leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"Come home with me." Her mouth went dry, and she nodded once, then again more firmly.

"Just let me tell my friend I'm leaving." Without bothering to wait for his response, Suzanne stood and eased her way through the crowd to Kim's side. "So, if I told you that I'm going to go have a one night stand with some strange Russian, what would you say?" Kim glanced over her shoulder to eye the dark man who was following her friend out onto the dance floor.

"Suze, I'd say that if you were ever going to have a one night stand: that would definitely be the guy to have it with. Damn." She fanned herself with one hand, as with the other, she pulled out one of the international cell phones they'd all got for the trip. "Just remember I'm number one on your speed dial. And you-" Kim jabbed a finger toward Kirill who'd come to stand beside them, "Make sure she's up by noon, OK? We do have things to do." The imposing Russian blinked at Kim, and Suzanne had to smother a laugh at her sudden mental image of a cocker spaniel staring down a Doberman.

"Da." Kim did laugh at his one word reply and then, with a wink to her friend, shooed the two of them off and turned back to her redhead. Clearly, they were dismissed for the evening.

With a hand on the small of her back, Kirill lead her over to collect her coat and then to valet station. Both, she was glad to see, kept her out of the cold as long as possible. His car was sleek and black, which didn't surprise her. She climbed in, and they were on their way. This time the silence was drastically less than comfortable, at least on her end. Was one supposed to make conversation on the way to go sleep with someone or not? This was why she avoided these sorts of encounters; she never quite knew what the 'rules' were. She decided to stay silent, and luckily, they pulled up to yet another valet at what she assumed was his building in fairly short order.

Then, his hand again on her back, they strode quickly through the rather sumptuous lobby and into the elevators, where the awkwardness evaporated as the pair all but fell upon each other. Clinging to his neck as he kissed her fiercely, Suzanne didn't even notice if he'd actually pressed the button for his floor or not. She assumed so, as the doors opened and Kirill began backing her out and down the hall. They only paused for a moment to allow him to fumble out his key and let them in before they were lunging at each other again, pulling off the heavy jackets and then her shirt. Suzanne yanked his suit jacket off and then came to a complete halt at the sight of a pair of loaded guns in the shoulder holster she hadn't noticed him wearing. He didn't move, just stood motionless, his eyes saying clearly that this next move would have to be her's.

"This... is probably where I should suggest we slow this way down..." She took a deep breath, and his hands began to slide away from her. "Fuck it." She slammed her mouth back on to his. The holsters and other articles of clothing were quickly stripped away.

"Next time," he whispered, his hands driving her up the wall, "we can go slow." Then he was in her, and she held on for dear life as he took her where he stood.

The next time was, as he'd promised, slow. They took hours, each exploring the other's body with lips and hands, mapping every inch. There was another momentary pause when she'd first run her hand over one of the larger scars littering his body like violent constellations. He'd still, giving her that same look, and then she'd followed her hand with her lips, and he'd relaxed, soothed by her, or so she hoped. When they finally slid together, it was as slow as their foreplay had been, and far more gentle than she'd expected him to be.

In the quiet after that round, he'd pulled her close, one arm banded around her waist. It was there, with the darkness to hide the blush she knew likely burn across her face, she dared to ask what she'd been wondering since he'd bought her the first drink.

"Why me?" She only whispered, the desire to keep some of the stillness intact keeping her from speaking aloud. He didn't answer, and she couldn't help but press him. "It's not like you didn't lack for female companionship..." He sighed deeply, the hand on her hip softly tracing circles in her skin.

"Those women. They ask for drinks, money, pretty gifts. They think it... daring- to be seen with a dangerous man." She wondered if the bitter tone to his voice had slipped out on accident.

"And you are dangerous." She felt him nod and heard him swallow almost imperceptibly.

"I am not a good man, little one." The arm around her waist tightened, and she didn't resist the closeness he seemed to crave in that moment, despite what was likely a warning in his voice. "I am Secret Service. The things I am paid to do... They are not always honorable. I am not a good man," he repeated. She sighed as she tried to figure out how to respond to what seemed to so nearly be a confession. Her hand traced the same scar she'd been startled by before.

"You might not be a good man, but you aren't evil, Kirill." He tensed, and she could tell he wanted to argue with her, so she went on. "If you were as bad as you think, I doubt you would have bothered buying me a drink first. Women alone in foreign countries can find out the hard way that some men are never honorable." She cuddled in even closer, pleased when he just held on instead of pushing her away. "You said not always; that means that sometimes you _are _an honorable man, Kirill." She held her breath waiting for his response.

Despite her anticipation, he still surprised her, flipping her onto her back and kissing her breathless. He dove into her desperately, as it to find something, reach something deep within her. She held on, her mind driven blank by the pace, by the need they both seemed to feel. Within what seemed like only moments, she came with a hoarse cry of his name, and that was enough to drive him over too. He lay heavily on her for a moment, murmuring in Russian as he nuzzled at her neck. She felt in that moment she'd damn near die to know what it was he was saying. He lifted slightly to kiss her deeply, and then rolled cradling her against his side again. They lay in silence, limbs and arms entwined, one of his hands stroking her hair softly as the night faded to the cold dim light of morning. Then, despite her best efforts, she fell fast asleep, sinking into the feeling of warmth and safety of his arms around her.

**January 17, 2006 Moscow, Russia**

Suzanne woke alone and to the sound of an alarm beeping insistently from the bedside table. She shifted to view the digital readout through bleary eyes, laughing quietly as she realized what time it was. Kirill, apparently acceding to Kim's order, had set the alarm for 12 noon. Suzanne blinked as she noticed what looked to be a small stack of paper currency, a pen, and a note resting on the clock itself. She pulled her tired, and she noted, sore in the best way possible, body to sit up as she grabbed the note and read it, hearing Kirill's deep voice in her head.

"I had work today. Niko, downstairs, is to lock up the flat and call you a cab. I have left you enough to pay for it so do not let the driver cheat you."

She shook her head in mild annoyance, knowing that she likely would be cheated if forced to find a cab on her own. It still didn't make it any less bossy on his part. She stretched and pulled herself out of bed. With Kirill already gone, there really wasn't much point in sticking around. The only thing she'd likely accomplish would be to freak Kim out, and that was not the way she wanted to start the day. She pulled on her clothing, and shoved the note into her pocket. She glanced around the room for another sheet of paper, but couldn't' find anything without snooping more than she wanted too. Suzanne felt more than a little flattered that he'd trusted her this much, and she was not about to take advantage of that fact. With a shrug, she simply grabbed the pen and jotted down her cell number and the day she'd be leaving Moscow on one of the folded bills. Then, her jacket in hand, she left his lush apartment, and headed down to the lobby where she explained who she was to 'Niko.' He made the call, but she noted, seemed rather surprised to see her. Well, that probably made sense considering what she'd inferred about the kind of women Kirill usually ran with. They really didn't seem the types to actually stay the entire night. She waited by the glass doors until a non-descript black sedan slid up, and Niko nodded pointedly.

"That's a cab?" she asked, confused.

"Is private car. Kirill always asks for such."

"Oh, thank you." Suzanne nodded politely, trying not to show her disappointment at being informed that the car was something Kirill used often. Maybe she hadn't been that different from his usual conquests after all. She shook her head at the thought and bundled herself into her coat. She pushed through the door and strode quickly to the car, only to stop short as several men climbed out and rushed toward her. She screamed and turned back, trying to reach the doorway again. The man 'Niko' just watched through the glass as she was dragged into the car and driven away.

**Well I hope everyone's still with us! Next chapter, we'll get a look at what Jason's been up to. Hope to see you then!**


	3. An American Asset in Finland

**A: **So.... Here's that chapter thing you've all been waiting for. I was.... stuck in traffic. Yeah that's it.

**H: **For nearly 6 months...Uh huh.. that's a likely story.

**A:** It is when you live in D.C.

**H:** OK, I gotta give you that one. Eek. Anyway! Chapter type thing. It's here! She wrote, I post, and you all are happy!

**A:** Yep! It's Jason being every bit a man about his emotions. Read!

**H:** Yeah, men do that. Be men, I mean. Well, sometimes. *blinks* OK I don't think I even made sense to myself with that one...

**A: ***pat pat* It's OK hun. Just post it and we'll go. You've filled your social quota today.

**H:** Okie I post. Enjoy kids!

**An American Asset in Finland**

Jason was on the outskirts of Montreal and well on his way to recovery within a week of his fall into the icy waters of the East River. The rest of the month sped by in a blur of cities and airplanes and dwindling money, and it was mid February before he found himself in the city of Luanda, Angola on the southwest coast of Africa. The over populated streets and sky high apartments were the perfect place for him to lose himself. Jason threw himself into construction work in return for squatting rights in one of the finished apartments.

It was the perfect arrangement for him: heavy manual labor and free off the grid lodging. All his bills were paid by the apartment complex or stolen from neighbors. He spent as much time running from his gradually forming non-memories as he had previously spent searching for them.

Jason didn't care for his past anymore. The shock and disgust at himself he'd felt when he'd finally remembered his _voluntary_ assignment to Treadstone had turned him off of discovering anymore. He suspected that was why he was holed up in a tiny little apartment in a sea port in West Africa. He'd gone as far from the solitude he'd experienced with Marie in Goa as he could, steering away from down-to-earth hippie-like communities and the bright tranquil seaside.

He pushed away the emotional pain with long runs and aching muscles; it was easier for him to focus on a different kind of pain. When that didn't work, constant surveillance and continually remapping escape routes from the city kept him adequately preoccupied. Eventually, even those distractions didn't work anymore, and he was brought head to head with his grief. Stubbornly, he kept it at bay. When waking up each morning became an obstacle, Jason decided a change in venue was required. By then, four months had passed.

Finally settled into the small four walled shack he'd be using for his stay along the shores of Brazil. The beach north of Mossoro had been chosen for its remote location and cheap beach front accommodations.

He went into a downward spiral in his grief, living in a haze where he found himself barely able to follow his own set of inscrutable rules. With no one left to blame for Marie's death, he fell back on his own inability to save her; to help her. He ultimately blamed himself for everything that had happened to her. He'd blindly reached out to her that day, thinking he'd be able to just let her walk away afterward. He'd ignored the truth staring him in the face when Castel and the others came after him. He'd sought answers in her skin and berated himself for not finding any.

In the end, she'd been exactly what he'd needed, longed for. When everything came back around and found them years later, Jason had cursed himself for becoming lax and soft. He'd burned every picture he had of her. Except one. Jason had since replaced the abandoned frame with a newer cheaper simple black one. Now, the only color in the picture came from her. A shining beacon in the grey world he was living in. He'd cried all the tears he'd had within the first few days of his arrival. Jason barely ate, rarely managed to get enough water, and generally gave himself away to the overwhelming sadness that comes after the fiercest of rage.

Everyone needs something to live for, and Jason finally realized that on May 17th, 2005. He was seated on the porch, his elbows braced on his knees, his gaze looking out over the sea. He'd been in deep mourning for 8 total weeks, and when he'd awoken at dawn, Jason had felt an awkward silence and peace. There was a sense of turmoil beneath it all, but it was the kind that you knew would only take one huge life changing decision to banish.

Marie wouldn't want him pining, lost and lonely, in some remote Brazilian town watching dawn and barely living. Her infectious love for all forms of life and energy had once sunk deep into him, making him genuinely aware of everything around him. Jason had been living in a fog so deep he could barely see the sun. He stood then, toes digging into the sand just beyond the steps and took his first step toward the surf.

He could practically hear her; his sweet, pushy, loving, confusing, forward, practical, innocent, infuriating, snooping, ever-so-normal Marie hollering in the breeze around him that the best way to celebrate her life wasn't through mourning her in memories, but by experiencing life for what is was: a confusing, complicated, unrelenting, sometimes ironic gift. It wouldn't be easy; he wasn't under that delusion.

He'd stayed another three weeks, learning the people and culture of Brazil in the small village where he'd taken refuge. Afterward, Jason picked up and moved on with his outlook on life renewed. He set his sights for Istanbul.

When Jason got set up in his small rent-by-the-week-and-cash-only apartment near the harbor in southern Istanbul, he spent two weeks tracking down each of his contacts. Discreetly he mailed an unmarked parcel package, keeping track of the GPS put off by each phone from a previously set up laptop. He was notified instantly when each one was signed for and waited a total 5 minutes before calling each one.

"Hello?" Pamela Landy answered the phone with an air of unease.

"This is Bourne. The line is secure, untraceable." He replied in clipped tones.

"David?" He cut her off before she could go on.

"It's Jason Bourne." It was his only reply, an outward testament to his shedding his old personality. The one he didn't know. He'd come to embrace the man he was, knowledge, skills, abilities included. The only vestige of the old personality he couldn't drop was the guilt. He'd had mere moments to look over the files on himself before handing them over to Landy.

"Listen, I've got two things I need from you. One: Keep an ear out for Nicky Parsons and let me know if you hear from her. Two: I need a copy of my file." He knew she'd do this for him. She owed him. He didn't have to give her everything she needed on a silver platter… twice. He waited in silence for her answer. She didn't take long.

"OK Give me an address." He rattled off an address in Egypt and told her to hang on to the phone and use it to call him if she heard about Nicky. Then he hung up.

Jason made a series of calls as each phone arrived at its destination, all of them similar to the conversation he'd had with Landy. Each one of them was held in different languages and lacking the bit about his file.

The file arrived at his pick up point three days after arriving in Egypt, and a week after his conversation with Landy. He spent days pouring over it, committing every detail to memory. It did nothing to alleviate his guilt and brought no memories with it. He was left feeling even more guilty, with names to match the faces it was worse than he'd expected, and much like he'd read a biography of someone else's life. He fought the melancholy that threatened to fall over him, not wanting to descend into self loathing and grief again. He was grateful that his time in Brazil hadn't found anyone on his trail.

He spent his days working construction again, it was still a great workout and it kept his mind occupied. He spent his evenings with more of his pseudo memories. He didn't have crystal clear images in his head, but feelings and thoughts and things he _just knew_. Like the fact that Nicky Parsons made this little mewling sound when he'd got her wound too tight and she's practically begging for him to _just touch her_. And he knew how it felt to have his hands thrust deep into her hair, the silken strands gliding over the backs of his knuckles as he held on for dear life.

The same knuckles she brought him a cloth for that had been bruised and bloody after his fight with Desh. The same hands he'd gripped her upper arms with so tightly that he was sure he left bruises he hadn't even cared about. Hands that had pointed a gun at her, pressed it into her forehead and made her think he'd pull the trigger. He was still telling himself it was her cries matching Neski's wife echoing in his head that made him let her go.

Not for the first time did he wonder why she would be involved with a man like that. One she knew was a cold blooded killer; that she knew had _volunteered_ for the job. There were countless other non-memories, things he somehow knew about her. How her voice sounded when she whispered his name, the fact that she had a closet full of brand new running sneakers, and how her fingers made him feel when they trailed over his nude body.

The one thing that Jason knew about Nicky Parsons, the thing that made him uneasy, was her ability to compartmentalize everything in life so well that it didn't affect how she outwardly responded. He didn't need whatever mental muscle memory he was using to understand that bit of information about her. He'd seen it first hand, her ability to act so calmly around him, so at ease a mere six weeks after he'd threatened to put a bullet through her skull.

Had it been the first time he'd threatened her so bodily? Or had it been a regular occurrence in whatever relationship he'd had with her? Was he that fucked up that he'd needed to brutalize a young girl? She'd been, what- twenty? Twenty-one when they'd hooked up? He'd spent weeks and months telling himself it couldn't be anything more than sex between them. He was sure it was some kind of dominating, unhealthy, game to his once cold-blooded self. How could a girl like Nicky have willingly gotten involved with him?

He managed to convince himself that he'd manipulated her into it before he moved on to Turku, Finland.

Jason settled in another run-down-cash-only apartment complex when he arrived in the snow blanketed Christmas Town. With the temperature below zero, constant and expected for the middle of December, he found himself some proper climate centric clothing and headed to the docks. He came away with a secure job and some under the table interactions. Information would be forthcoming if there was any to be found.

He kept a constant non-routine of working, eating, exercising and sleeping for a month. His instincts screamed at him that something was happening and he should be alert and ready and Jason did his best to tamp down the urge to seek out whatever it was that was making him edgy. His constant surveillance told him everything was fine where he'd taken up residence and it was just his ever present panic taking hold.

He checked in with each of his contacts just in case. When an 'all clear' and 'we've heard nothing' was the result, his urge to run receded, but only marginally. Dreams of Nicky invaded his sleep. He didn't know if they were reemerging memories or his brain taking the knowledge he had about her and putting it into good use, but either way it felt like betrayal. It also made him feel more like a bastard and he picked up on his lament that he'd coerced her into whatever they had. It didn't stop him from wanting her.

The screaming of a cell phone startled him out of one such dream at six in the morning, on January 12th. Immediately awake and ready run he grabbed the thing and flipped it open. The person on the other end didn't give him time to speak.

"Someone's looking for her." The voice was low and feminine in his ear and the thick Scottish accent told him who had called.

"Why?"

"I dinna know, but you should find her first."

"Do you know who?" Panic flooded his mind, but didn't have an outlet in his voice.

"No." He nearly hurled the phone across the room.

"How did you find out?"

"Chatter mostly. Nothing straightforward, a guy heard a guy talking about an American girl. Long blond hair, brown eyes, thought she was a preacher. You know, parson? Anyway, they'd been talking to each other about her and my snitch didn't want to stick around. Said the guys looked pretty mean."

Jason clenched his fist around the fragile piece of technology and focused his attention on what needed to be done.

"Thanks." He hung up the phone and made another round of calls to his contacts.

**January 17, 2006 Turku, Finland**

It was another four days passed before Jason heard back from any of his contacts. The ringing blared through the room jerking Jason from a fitful slumber and a dream of reaching Nicky just after the nameless faceless man who was looking for her.

"I have information." Jason's surprise at the fact the information had come so quickly was only overshadowed by the shock of who's voice was delivering the message.

"Tell me."

"Not over the phone. I'll contact you again." The line went dead.

**H:** Well that's it! Hope you like it and review it and and and are totally happy? Wow, I am WAY too over-caffeinated. Yeah...I'll try to get the next chapter up sooner rather than later!


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